Brit-shish kebab

I was delirious when I left his office… I received an invitation to Euromoney Conference in London few days earlier and just wanted to give it a shot with my boss, whether I could go. He mentioned that we do not have any budget for such expenses but due to my recent achievements he approved “the idea”. He asked me not to stay at the Hilton Tower Bridge, where the event was held, for 300£ per night (and for 3 nights) but to find a “decently priced” hotel. I also had to fly with Aeroflot economy class. Until then I had enough travel experience flying from Russia to Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kazakhstan with this company and since then I aim to earn my living writing stories on these trips. (I still think that Aeroflot stands for “Avoid ERror Of FLying On This).

A colleague of mine had a friend working at Shell in London and he promised to help me with the hotel arrangements. The next day I had a hotel reservation confirmation on my desk, for 50£ a night, at a 3 star hotel, which was also acceptable by my boss. YE$$$!!! I was going to UK, to London, to breath the “British” air, to get a hold of their accent and also to make some shopping.

Days before the trip I started studying to imitate the famous British accent and when I reached the passport control at Heathrow, leave aside the accent, I couldn’t say any words in English…I was mute in front of the customs officer, probably looking as an illiterate Middle Eastern immigrant. While the excessively polite officer was checking my passport page by page, another officer came to me and with a highly excited voice “Sir, you have been selected for extra screening” he said. It sounded as if I am the one-billionth tourist reaching Heathrow and will be greeted by the mayor of London, journalists, where I will be handed the keys of London; started rehearsing my speech. Unfortunately, it meant entering a small cabin and undressing in front of an African-origin officer, while he was searching through my handbag wearing medical gloves. Once he was sure that my bag is harmless, he waved his head and asked me to dress up and to leave the cabin. I was feeling sorry for him, for the job he is doing; to screen naked men from all around the world, 8 hours a day… and the lucky bastards doing the same job with women on the other side…

I have started my royal trip by taking a cab from the airport; when I told the address and the name of the hotel to the driver he asked whether I am from Mumbai, which was actually a useful hint that I couldn’t get.

When we reached the hotel, I saw few men lying (and sleeping) on the entrance stairs. Climbing through them, I was hit by a thick smell, the moment I entered the hall. The fume and density of the aroma created an eatable fog, through which I saw the big billboard reading “Indian Housewives Cooking Festival”. Those guys on the stairs probably fainted and fell unconscious on the stairs after a 15 minutes visit inside. A group of Indian women were yelling to each other for the sake of a conversation. There were spices and there were girls; so I encountered Spice Girls.

The hotel was fully booked for the shows and presentations of the cooking fest, each room serving as a cousy kitchenette for food fetishists. The friend of my friend booked the last room available (Later I learned, his name was Raaji). My room was neat and clean, although the heater unit was blowing the clean curry air to my face.

I couldn’t resist the noise and the smell, grabbed my handbag and left the hotel for a late afternoon shopping.

There were million shops, on the endless streets, their doors shoulder to shoulder with each other. I was looking at store windows, checking prices and converting them to US dollars. On St James Street, I found myself in front John Lobb store, famous with its leather shoes. Eye-picked a pair and stepped in to ask for a try. ”Cheers, mate! Can I have a pair of 8’s?” showing with my finger somewhere behind me, supposedly at the shop window. With this attitude and approach, I was genuine Brit.

“Whaddoyawant?” replied the shop assistant dressed as a clown. A real clown.

I couldn’t give up on my Brit attitude, “Actually I am used to 8 and a half’s, but I heard these get larger and more comfortable in time”. Two kids, hardly walking age, jumped in front me; one of them fell and started crying. The clown pulled him up and said something like “Nofugging fugg, you fuggs” and turned back to me.

-“whaddoyowant man? Huh? You, pervert?”

-“I told you, I would like to try those”

When I started searching for another shop assistant to get help, I realized that his other 2 colleagues were also dressed in clown costumes and there were few dozen kids playing around. By mistake I entered the next door and now I was at the kids’ playground of Selfridges, where the mommies park their kids while shopping. And I was asking for a pair of 8 year olds, hoping they get larger in time… Left the room when all clowns were gathering to beat the pedophile, and I mixed with the crowd.

Decided to stop by at Starbucks. At the counter, a dark tanned, Asian looking happy face greeted me,”Welkomm!”. I cannot see the menu on the wall because of the peacock he is wearing on his head.

“Hi there, can I have a small Frappucino and a fruit bar, please?” I asked.

“Sure Sire, that makes pipe!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You owe us pipe, Sir”

“Which pipe and why?”

“It is pipe pounds Sire” showing all fingers of his right hand. “Ha-ha, here you are” and I paid.

“Thank you” he said and shouted “A prappucino por the gentleman and a pruit bar, coming”. Cute Balinese…

Scanned the location, almost all seats empty but at the corner a brunette at her late 20's was sitting alone, drinking her coffee and reading. I cannot resist and walk towards her, with an air as if the coffee shop is full and I have to make the entire road to the table next to her. Took off my blackberry, the gadget proving that I make money, and started buttoning. She doesn’t look. There are few paper napkins on her table, I asked if could get one, she nodded OK.

Gathering all thoughts, rehearsing the accent in my mind, I approach her “Ze wireless is down, I presume”. She picks up her mobile, checks its screen and answers back “Nope, the connection is fine”. At least she looked at me and smiled, or grinned. I didn’t turn on wireless option... Now we have a turn-on.

-“Ssshhite, my blog, not working” trying to open a conversation but my efforts for the accent makes it hard to understand. Also the “sh”-play ends up with a small drop of spit being launched and land on her book. Took the napkin and cleaned the juice.

-‘Sorry, what’s with your bullock?”, she is very serious.

Seems that I emphasized wrong syllables but didn’t realize that time. To make sure that she gets the point, “My blog, virtual diary”. This time I am sure the accent was perfect.

She hopped up, ran to the counter and showing me to the pipe Balinese, said, “Look, this idiot came next to me and started talking about his bullocks and his diarrhea.”

Jackpot, once gain… Returning back to Curry Palace, I am determined to preserve my own accent tomorrow during the meetings.